Sentiment
by AnninaSA
Summary: Post Reichenbach-Fall. Sentiments have found their way into Sherlock's life. How has it changed him and where will it lead him?
1. Chapter 1

_I am not writing a story, the story is writing itself. It is merely using me to find its way out into the open. I have no idea, how long it will be and where it will end up. The rating might chance, the genre might shift. Ideas, feedback, inputs of any kind are highly appreciated!_

**Chapter 1**

Sentiment.

What a useless thing. What a dangerous thing.

But even though he had always thought it to be a useless and dangerous thing to have, even though he had tried his best not to and for a long time had been convinced he had succeeded, he had without a doubt succumbed to it.

Playing the game had been about the thrill, about the challenge, about not being bored. He far preferred being on the winning side simply because he preferred being right. He did also prefer not seeing innocent people die, but it was certainly not high on his list of priorities. People served a purpose to him, they did a job. Getting used to new people was always a nuisance, but people could be replaced.

If not for sentiment. He had felt it creeping up on him, but had always shaken it off, disregarded it. Feelings, caring - sentiment was not something he was privy to. It got in the way. Cluttered the hard drive. For a long time he had been denying it happening to him, to his superior mind. But Moriarty had pushed him to a point where he could no longer deny his feelings for the people around him. He could have easily outwitted him earlier, he could have had the upper hand until the very last moment, even simply overpowering him on the roof, throwing him of the building. That would have been the end of _that_ game. He would have won. Only he wouldn't have. He would have lost three of the people closest to him. People he trusted, respected, cared for.

Sentiment to him was a completely new experience. He had blatantly disregarded it for most of his life, but with the arrival of Doctor John Watson it had started to linger ever so discretely at the back of his mind. Slowly it had intruded into his life, had been pushed back by him only to reemerge stronger than before until it would not be pushed back anymore. Being associated with John Watson had put him in social situations that were unfamiliar to him, had made him see a side of things he had previously paid no heed to. John had let in the sentiment. Moriarty had made him openly acknowledge it. For in the end Moriarty's game had no meaning to Sherlock anymore, he was no longer playing. He was fighting. Fighting for the people he cared for, fighting to not have his heart burnt out of him.

He had always known how sentiment affected people. How it made them say foolish things, clouded their judgment and led to imprudent actions. He knew how to use sentiment for his own good, how to manipulate people with smiles, flattery and tears. But standing up on that roof, acting out a carefully constructed plan, for the first time he was absolutely and undeniably no longer in control. His feelings were. In the days and hours leading up to this moment, he had known those feelings to be bubbling to the surface, but he had been able to hold them in, push them down. Sometimes only just. But standing up on the edge of the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, saying goodbye to his first and best friend, the dreaded sentiment took over. His voice faltered, knowing what was to come. He felt his heart ache at the thought of losing his friends, and for the first time he understood. And he was about to inflict this pain on them by making them lose him. But the alternative was so much worse.

Saying goodbye to John, preparing to hurt him in the worst way he could now imagine, he could not help the tears from falling. And for the first time they were not a ploy, an elaborate ruse. They were entirely his own.


	2. Chapter 2

_I realize the first chapter is quite short. I don't really plan ahead when I write, I just sit down and let my fingers fly over the keyboard. So there's probably no consistency to be expected from me, when I update, how long the chapters are going to be. But the first one is so short, maybe you need a little more to hold your interest, so here is Chapter 2!_

**Chapter 2**

The only reason Sherlock Holmes was still alive was because James Moriarty had made a mistake. Had push come to shove, Sherlock would have been alone in his plight. Steered by his newly acquired sentiments he would have had no other choice but to jump off the roof to his death on the pavement below. To save the life of his three friends. But Moriarty's mistake had not been to have three assassins at his beck and call, his mistake had been not having _four_.

Doctor Molly Hooper. Moriarty had used her to get to him. To him she had been nothing more than means to an end. A tool. And to him, Sherlock saw her no differently. Molly gave him access to the laboratory, to the morgue, to corpses, let him even remove body parts for his own personal experiments. Molly was simply being kept appeased by Sherlock because she was convenient. That's all Moriarty had seen and until John had come along, apparently intent on turning his life upside down, so had Sherlock.

He had always noticed how she'd become flustered around him, had sometimes flinched at her own words, muttered and stumbled over them. Often she'd say something and immediately apologize, blushing in embarrassment, calling herself on an asinine statement. He was no stranger to socially unacceptable mutterings and outbursts, as John had so often pointed out. Unlike Molly he did not care. But she had always been generally uncomfortable in social situations, not only with him.

At their first meeting he had easily been able to tell that she was very self-conscious and had some self-esteem issues. Flattery would go far with her, the right look, the right smile at the right moment. But he had been unaware of her affection for him up until that Christmas, when John and Misses Hudson had contrived a proper gathering, the idea of which he had abhorred. He had been genuinely surprised to find the carefully wrapped gift at the top of her bag to be for him. The dress, the hair, the make-up - it had been for him. And very unlike him he had suddenly felt uncomfortable. With a jolt he had realized that his words had hurt her, the mere fact of which had caused him discomfort. But also, possibly even more significant to him was his feeling of guilt. It was not something he was familiar with and it bothered him. He wanted to turn away and return to John's laptop, but he found himself unable to abide the idea of leaving it as it was, just letting Molly stand there with her disappointment in him and in herself clearly written on her face. It had puzzled him, that in this situation, Molly's feelings had been more important to him than being right. Albeit a somewhat small defeat, he had indeed yielded to his sentiment and admitted his mistake quite publicly by apologizing and asking for her forgiveness.

Of course, he had been distracted by The Woman after this incident. But even in going to see her supposed body at the morgue, he had remembered the sudden stirring of emotions at the Christmas Party, as Molly had been the one showing him the body. He had become very self-conscious at her mention of Christmas, straightening up, trying not to avert his gaze as to not alert Mycroft to the change in his demeanor, no doubt eliciting snide remarks from him. It was another first for him, another uncomfortable flash of sentiment.

Thankfully she had changed the subject to the woman on the table before them and her bashed up face. Sherlock did not particularly enjoy looking at anyone's bashed up face, but he rather liked the fact that Molly did not mind the sight. Unlike other women who would have been reduced to a senseless blubbering mess at a gruesome view such as this. Molly however did not flinch, she only gave them an apologetic glance as if she was feeling sorry for subjecting Mycroft and himself to such a vision of violence.

Practically obsessing over The Woman had taken up much of his time after that. He came to realize that none of the sentiments, which were all very new to him, ever began to stir at the thought of her. These sensations he had known before. He was bothered. Annoyed. Irene Adler had intrigued him from the start. He could not read her like he could others, it took him a lot more time and that was not something he liked. And he had expected more from her than to have gotten herself killed quite so quickly. He had expected more from her mind, or he wouldn't have mentally taken her to the crime scene the first time they had met. He would definitely not have let her take part in his deduction otherwise. She was a puzzle unlike any other he wanted to solve and it had been taken from him.

However, he had not been completely surprised at her return and finding out, she had faked her death. He was rather satisfied that, although she had proven too complex for his mind to grasp in her entirety, he was slowly pushing back the veil, glimpsing the secrets behind it. In helping his brother Mycroft, he did put some of the puzzle pieces together, but knew there were still many scattered, yet to be assembled. So naturally, learning from her predicament of likely being beheaded, he went to assist her in her escape. It satisfied him immensely to know, that with her survival, the puzzle was still out there and posed the possibility of a challenge yet to come.

His mind was however quickly taken up by other things. Molly Hooper in particular. She had changed quite a bit, had become more outspoken, outgoing and although she still managed to stumble over more than a few of her words, she wasn't as easily discouraged. Nor was she as easily persuaded to help out Sherlock around the lab or the morgue. When he needed her help with the puzzle Moriarty had left him, he and John had caught her just on her way out. To a lunch date, she had said. He had to physically turn her around himself and pull her along because for the first time he could remember, she had not been inclined to do as he had asked. She had stopped in the middle of the hallway, clearly wanting to leave. Only after mentioning Jim from IT had she tagged along and helped in any way she could, wanting to exonerate herself in her own eyes rather than anyone else's.

There in the lab she had surprised him. Which intrigued and bothered him at the same time, as he was not easily surprised. She had spoken up and even after he had asked her to stop her attempts at conversation, after she had stumbled over her words and thoughts, she had sternly kept on going. Because she'd had something to say and was not going to be deterred from it. For once it had not mattered, what he'd say or do, she would not falter.

Not that he had gotten around to doing anything, as her behavior had completely astounded and bewildered him, had left him staring after her, agape. For once, she had completely broken free from the shackles of her own insecurity, had not let herself be influenced by his wits or charms and had been completely herself, even calling him on one of his inappropriate responses, practically ordering him to say thank you. Molly Hooper had done something he had not been able to predict. Her actions had defied his deductions and had left him dumbfounded.

He - Sherlock Holmes had been at a loss for words


	3. Chapter 3

_Read, enjoy, comment. Please :-)_

**Chapter 3**

She had been wrong.

She did count to him. She had always counted and he had always trusted her.

Looking back on their encounters however, he did understand how Molly could have come to a different conclusion. In not looking up from his binocular microscope when she relayed information to him, simply calling her 'John', not paying any attention to her otherwise, he had encouraged that thought in Molly. He had disregarded her on many occasions, had brushed her aside or flat out offended her. Many instances had occurred before John Watson becoming a part of his life, before he had taken to pointing out his social inadequacies. Remembering hints and pointers from John, he mentally examined even long past encounters he'd had with Molly Hooper and found himself lacking. At least in the eyes of John Watson.

He had been unsure. Had she lost her faith in him? Her trust? Had she ever really trusted him or just been attracted to him? Would she be true to her word and help him or had he overstepped one time too many?

As she had come out of the adjacent room, he had spoken up. His voice barely above a whisper, heavy with emotion. He had not been playing her like the many times he had done before. He had genuinely feared her loyalty to have shifted, her willingness to help him to have had dwindled. But as he had feared for his life, had let his usually unmoving shell crack and show a vulnerable side of him that indeed was not okay, she had stood by him.

"What do you need?", she had asked. His mind had raced, so much had gone through his head before he had answered, seemingly without hesitation. 'To be honest with you', he had thought. 'To for once not coerce you into doing what I want from you. For you to only be doing what you want, because it is truly what you believe you should do.'

He had been afraid of her answer. He made people do his bidding without them realizing it, he was a master manipulator, he knew how to always get his way. He knew how to make Molly give him exactly the answers he wanted to hear. And he had stood there, afraid of what her answers might be if left entirely up to her.

"If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything I think I am - would you still want to help me?", he had asked, his furrowed brow displaying doubt.

Unwavering she had looked up at him, not averting her gaze in the slightest, answering a bit quieter but no less sincere with a question in return: "What do you need?"

He had fought the urge to blink, for his eyes to betray him even more, the slightest hint of tears welling up as he stepped closer to her, overwhelmed with gratitude at her selflessness and loyalty. She had locked her eyes on his and he could read honesty and determination in them. "You", he had simply said and it had not been followed by blushing or the stumbling over hushed words. She had simply held his gaze and nodded. He had grabbed her shoulders, bending down slightly, moving even closer. She had clearly not anticipated that, but he would have had expected an entirely different reaction from her to a situation like this not long ago. Then however he had not been surprised to have her eyes still firmly fixed on him while she had listened intently to his plan and her involvement in it.

John had been right. Alone was not what protected him, friends did. And at that moment he was grateful to have been wrong, to indeed not being alone, but having a friend in Doctor Molly Hooper. To have her protect him, save him.

Not before long he had left Molly behind to prepare as he himself had to get ready to face Moriarty on the roof. He had almost reached the door, only to swivel around and make his way back to her. Without hesitation he had bent down, his lips gently brushing over her cheek as his right hand had hovered just next to her hip. "Thank you, Molly Hooper", he had whispered. Unlike the kiss at his and John's flat at their Christmas gathering, this one was not met with disbelieve. She had smiled up at him with confidence as she had taken his hand into hers to give it a reassuring squeeze.

"See you later, Sherlock Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

_I've never begged (...) in my life._

_Please review. Please. (twice)_

**Chapter 4**

Molly Hooper had always felt like a bit of a klutz in overly social situations. Any social situation, in fact. But Sherlock Holmes had brought out the worst in her. Of course she had noticed his good looks, but that wasn't even what had secured him her attention. Not at first, at least.

She had always found it difficult to hold a conversation. Not always had it been out of awkwardness, but more often because she found to have little to nothing in common with her vis-à-vis. Topics like fashion and shopping simply could not hold her interest, the consequences of which were painfully obvious, as her mother liked to remind her. But often those things seemed to be of utmost importance to women around her. Men on the other hand apparently liked to hold conversations strictly among themselves rather than including her, even if her input could have been valuable. Had she managed not to awkwardly stutter it, that was.

But more often than not her attempts at conversation had been substantially hindered by the lack of intellectual stimulation her counterpart had provided. And often her remarks had simply been pushed aside, her chosen subject exchanged for one far less interesting without comment. She had always attributed that to her uncanny ability to put her foot in her mouth, but she was very much unaware of the fact, that oftentimes people simply didn't understand her knowledgeable comments or were even intimidated by her intellect. By drawing the wrong conclusions she had grown increasingly withdrawn and even more socially awkward.

The first time she had met Sherlock, Mike Stamford had brought him by to use some of the laboratory equipment. Apart from the fact that he was not exactly unattractive, she had found little to be positive about him. He had been rude and dismissive, quite distant and overall unpleasant. As he had been working on the microscope, she had paid him little heed, instead chatting with Mike about one of her cases, mentioning bits and pieces of the recent postmortem examination. The details of the case itself were muddied in her memories, she only remembered bringing up an inconsistency that still needed rechecking and subsequently Sherlock interrupting quite rudely.

She had been irritated at first. But with every word from his mouth, Molly's eyes had grown bigger and her jaw had dropped further as waves of emotion had flooded her mind, disbelieve had mingled with awe, skepticism had been replaced with understanding until only complete adoration had remained. By deducing her entire case after only receiving snippets of information, Sherlock had allowed her a glimpse into his mind and it was beautiful.

She had always been used to being more or less bored by the people surrounding her. Her work sometimes offered a little mystery, a little challenge. But mostly she just lived through the same old daily grind. And suddenly this man had come along and he had left her awestruck, baffled, utterly stunned and slap-bang his hair had seemed a little bit bouncier, his cheekbones a little bit sharper, his eyes a little bit deeper, his smile a little bit warmer.

Saucer-eyed, she had slowly backed out of the room, falling over her words and her own two feet to get to the morgue, where she had verified that Sherlock had indeed been right, solving her mystery by halfheartedly listening in on their conversation and connecting dots she hadn't even known to be there.

Molly had grown increasingly fond of him and had always looked forward to his visits. She had relished every opportunity of being in his presence, to experience his incredible brainpower over and over again, it had been captivating.

Of course she had been aware how he had always cunningly employed his intellect to get his way, how he often just knew which button to push to get what he wanted from her. But she had never minded, it had always been one more chance to be with him, to observe how his mind worked up close and personal.

She had overlooked his rudeness in favor of his brilliance.


	5. Chapter 5

_Ah, hell. I'm in a good mood. So here's another chapter. It's a short one, the shortest so far. But two in one day! Wohoo!  
_

_Review, please. Seriously. Down there, yes, all the way down. Scroll down, push the little button. Push it. You know you want to! *chough* ... *snigger*_

**Chapter 5**

Molly Hooper had adored Sherlock Holmes.

But at some point it had just been too much. His whole attitude towards her practically screamed rejection and it had become entirely unbearable. She had started to distance herself from him, leaving herself open for other relationships. Of course, Moriarty had seized that opportunity to coldheartedly use her, which did not exactly strengthen her emotional stability.

She had been angry at Sherlock for deducing Jim's sexual orientation. But looking back, she had not been very surprised. He had seemed smart, kind and funny. He had shown an interest in her. Yet again she had employed selective blindness regarding a man and it had left her disappointed in herself.

Of course, later she had learned, who Jim from IT really was and it had made her nauseous. Again, she had closed herself off, had allowed nobody to overcome her emotional armor, instead focusing on Sherlock once more.

Yes, he was rude, emotionally detached and outrageously impudent at times. But he had always been straight-forward and honest. The way she saw it, he might not be the easiest person to deal with, but at least one always knew where they were at with him.

That had been enough for a while. Until that faithful Christmas evening when she had foolishly sought to impress him. He had absolutely shown her up and she had been embarrassed out of her mind. His apology and the kiss on her cheek had caught her completely off guard and if not for his provoking text alert she would have probably not moved at all, would just have stared at him dumbfounded until somebody physically moved her.

Sherlock had shown a side to himself, she doubted anyone had ever seen before. He had devastated and humiliated her, only to turn around and leave her positively overwhelmed.

After that incident, Molly had started to look at Sherlock differently. She had removed him from his ever-present pedestal, had allowed herself to mentally lower him down to her own level. She had still been awkward around him, but to her that had not been a new sensation. It did not need Sherlock Holmes to leave her flustered.

By looking at him through different eyes, she had been able to notice things she had not seen before. And by seeing him as her equal as opposed to her superior, she had finally managed to speak up, to voice her opinion without being frightened into silence after another halfhearted attempt had been shot down by Sherlock.

She had been too busy concentrating on bringing her point across, on offering her help to a man, who in her eyes clearly thought himself above such petty needs, that she had missed the flash of hurt confusion on his face when she replied that she did not count.

Molly had however noticed the hesitation in Sherlock's voice, how the man who seemed to be able to spout whole paragraphs in a single breath had slowly, carefully enunciated his thoughts, had seemed to stumble over his own words.

For a moment, she had grown defensively confident, even extorting a thank you from him. But the change in his demeanor had left her somewhat confused and she had simply refused to revert to her pallid, unsure self, so she had practically ran from the lab, blanking out the stuttering Sherlock gaping after her.

She might not have noticed it. She had definitely not acknowledged it. But Sherlock Holmes had changed her. And Molly Hooper had changed him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you for sticking with me. I know, lots of back-story not a lot of plot. That is starting to change, however. At least partially in this chapter, but definitely in the next one. As for what's to come after that... I have lots and lots and lots of single scenes floating around, some of them already neatly written down, some still somewhere in the unexplored depths of the mystery that is my brain. What I need now is to come up with a believable background for our characters to actually end up there... I'll be giving it my bestest and nothing's gonna stop me but divine intervention._

**Chapter 6**

Getting back to business as usual after Sherlock Holmes' plunge off the hospital roof had proven to be difficult for Doctor Molly Hooper.

She had been the one to perform the autopsy. That's how it had been arranged. That's what their plan had covered in minute detail and she had played her part to perfection, just like she had promised Sherlock. Just like he had asked her to, trusted her to.

Of what would come after, she'd only had an inkling. But as it were, she had been overwhelmed and largely unprepared. Lestrade had interrogated her, questioned every detail, he had wanted to know so many things, she had hardly found the time to breathe, much less come up with smart and believable answers. John had fought to keep his composure, but when he had finally found his voice, his questions had seemed even harder to answer, his gaze more difficult to hold, his voice almost impossible to listen to.

With every word, every made up answer, every fabricated detail it had become harder to breathe, her voice had become a little shriller and she had become increasingly tense until finally she had been unable to stand it any longer. She had buried her face in her hands, barely able to suppress her sobs, firmly squeezing her eyes shut.

Lestrade had been taken aback for a moment, surprised by her outburst until realizing just how ignorant he had been. Proceeding to shuffle his feet, staring down on his toes in embarrassment he had remained quiet.

John had rubbed his hands over his face, his head tilted back, muttering into his hands. "Oh, god...", a groan had escaped him.

With one big step he had closed the distance between them, pulling Molly into a hug, stroking her hair with one hand and firmly holding her back with the other. Molly had not removed her hands from her face, burying her head in the crook of John's neck. Struggling to take even breaths, she had somehow managed not to wail in despair, although she had very much felt like it. "I'm sorry", she had muttered over and over again, shaking her head, "I am so sorry, John."

Of course he had attributed her apologies to her little breakdown and the loss of their friend, not to her pain over having to hurt him like this.

He had pulled her even closer, had held her head close to his, squeezing his eyes shut as he had kissed the top of her head.

"God, no. No Molly, I am sorry. I shouldn't have... I wasn't... God, Molly, I wasn't thinking!" His voice had been heavy with emotion. "You lost him, too. And still you did... You looked at..." his voice had trailed off and just like Molly he had suppressed a sob.

Behind them, Inspector Lestrade had cleared his throat, "No more questions, Molly. Just a written report, when you have it. When you can... No more questions"

They had grown closer every day after that. Sometimes they texted, sometimes there was a quick phone call, sometimes John came by the lab and they just sat in front of 'his' microscope sharing a bag of crisps.

They gave each other hugs, when they needed them, the occasional pat on the back, a reassuring smile and always an open ear. They reminded each other of all the things that were still right and good in the world, so they actually believed it when they sat in Misses Hudson's living room once a week, cheering her up together over tea and biscuits.

It was not getting back to normal. But it was moving on. Slowly, steadily moving on, getting back to living their lives instead of watching, lonely and sad, as it crept by them.

Molly felt a jolt of pain every time someone, especially John, mistook her guilt over lying as pain, but over time, it had become easier to overcome. She had not seen Sherlock in weeks, not since the autopsy, to her he was just as gone as to anyone else. She had not expected any differently.

So when she opened the door to her flat with John in tow and saw a blur of black and purple disappear into her bedroom out of the corner of her eye, she let out a squeal, stumbled backwards into Johns arms outside and forcefully slammed the door shut.


	7. Chapter 7

_Ah, reviews, reviews. Chicken soup for my soul, food for my muse.  
_

_Anyway, I have two more chapters pretty much ready after this, but they didn't come easily like this one did. So I'll go over them again, improving as I go. But there will definitely be two more chapters before the weekend :-)_

**Chapter 7**

Molly walked backwards, inching her way into her flat through the almost closed door, absolutely refusing to open it any further than necessary. The straps of her oversized bag caught on the doorknob and she stumbled backwards again for the second time in five minutes.

"Ah, sorry. I'm just gonna... I'm gonna be a minute." She glanced up at John, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "I'll just... I'll be right back. Okay? ...yes, okay!"

John's gaze shifted from her tangled handbag to her feet before finally looking up at her with a smirk. He just nodded and leaned against the wall outside the flat as Molly slammed the door in his face.

Molly tossed her handbag onto the dresser next to her coat rack and let her coat carelessly follow before she practically ran to her bedroom. She had the good sense not to let go of the doorknob as she threw the door open, not letting it slam into the wall behind it.

Her eyes darted across the darkened room, slowly adjusting to the minimal light shining through the shutters until she finally spotted the silhouette of Sherlock in the corner of the room, partially shielded from view by her big armoire.

Sherlock's hands darted from their position behind his back to his sides as Molly flung her arms around his neck. He barely managed to steady himself, grabbing the armoire with his left hand as he brought his right up to Molly's back.

In mid-motion, Sherlock felt himself being pushed backwards as Molly suddenly broke the embrace. Thankfully, he still had his hand on the ornate frame of Molly's armoire and did not stumble backwards this time.

Sherlock looked down at Molly a little bemused as her arm swung forward without warning, her hand hitting the lapel of his coat. Glancing from his coat to Molly's face, his expression changed to a smirk.

"Molly, if you want to slap me, I suggest you do so properly. My coat is hardly an adequate substitution."

"Don't you dare me, Sherlock Holmes!" Molly growled, poking his purple-shirt-clad chest with her finger.

Tilting his head slightly and raising an eyebrow at her behavior, Sherlock assumed his usual comfortable position with his hands behind his back. Molly Hooper had certainly changed. For one, she had surprised him yet again. He attributed her actions to conflicting emotions, but he had certainly not seen it coming. While most causes of behavioral patterns were very easy for him to deduce, some attributed to sentiment were still a mystery to him. On top of that, the Molly standing in front of him was definitely a bolder, more confident version of her old self. He was conflicted as to whether or not he liked that. She intrigued him, which was anything but boring. At the same time he knew it meant that she wouldn't be as easily persuaded to bend to his will as she had been in the past. No, he certainly didn't quite know what to think of it.

Sherlock's face shifted to a neutral expression as he cleared his throat. "What are you doing here, Molly?"

"What am _I_ doing here?!" Molly squeaked, her voice awkward somewhere between a whisper and a shout. "What are _you_ doing here? You are in _my_ flat!"

Sherlock locked down at her, unmoving. "It's Thursday afternoon. You're having tea with John and Misses Hudson at Baker Street."

"How do you...?" Molly asked, staring up at him before she lowered her head, running her hand over her face as she stood with the other hand on her hip. "Never mind."

Squinting and tilting his head, Sherlock moved a little closer. "Why are you not having tea with John and Misses Hudson at Baker Street?"

"Misses Hudson is ill." Molly sighed.

As she saw Sherlock's eyes widen subtly, she brought her hands up to his arms, gently stroking them before pulling away slightly, her hands hovering over his upper arms, almost touching.

"Oh, no. No... I... sorry.. No, not really ill. Sorry." She winced, as she brought her hands back down to her sides. "She just has a stomach flu. Nothing major. But, you know, she always dotes on us when we're there and we wanted her to have some rest. So we checked on her, John and I, made sure she had plenty of fluids and then we came...", her voice trailed off as her eyes became wide and she stared up at Sherlock. "... here... John! He's outside, waiting. Oh, what are we going to do?" She barely dared to ask, wincing again.

"Yes, I gathered as much." Sherlock had returned to his stoic demeanor. "What did you tell him?"

Molly blushed slightly, looking away from him "Oh, I... I told him, I had forgotten to put my clean laundry in the dresser and asked him to wait while I put it away because..." Taking a deep breath, Molly straightened her back and looked up to hold Sherlock's penetrating stare defiantly. "I asked him to wait outside, because my laundry was still on the sofa and I didn't want him to see my knickers."

Caught off guard by yet another unexpected shift in Molly's behavior, Sherlock suppressed a snort, shifting his gaze to her feet. "You should not keep him waiting."

"But... you are in here." Molly bowed slightly, turning her head, trying to look into Sherlock's eyes before she whispered "In my bedroom."

Looking up at her again, drawing himself to his full height, Sherlock sneered. "Yes, I can hardly walk out of here now, can I? 'Hello John, goodbye John. Don't mind me.' Besides, it's not like John has a reason to come barging into your bedroom." His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "Does he?"

"Does he what?" Molly had not noticed the change in his posture.

"Does he have reason to enter your bedroom?"

"Sherlock!" Molly stared up at him indignantly. "Get your mind out of the gutter!"

After a moment, her expression softened and a smile flashed over her face. "Oh, Sherlock..." she sighed, leaning forward and embracing him tightly, pushing the side of her face up to his chest briefly before letting go and taking a step back. "I am so glad to see you, to know that you are okay!" she looked up at him, a little frown forming on her face. "But you shouldn't have come here."

With that, Molly turned on her heel, and rushed from the room, closing the door behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

_Without further ado... Except i ask you to please review! (no rhyming intentional)  
_

**Chapter 8**

"Where do you keep the sugar?" John called from the kitchen as Molly placed a plate of assorted biscuits on the coffee table.

"Middle cupboard, bottom shelf on the left." She called back, making her way to the kitchen. She entered just as John dropped two sugar cubes into her cup of steaming hot tea. The fact, that he did not take sugar made him noticing, that she did, all the more meaningful to her.

She smiled briefly before throwing a worried glance over her shoulder. She had wanted to ask John to sit down, wanted to prepare the tea for them all by herself, seeing as he was a guest in her flat. But then he would have been alone in the living room in clear view of her bedroom door. He would have had time to look around, to let his mind wander. He would have had time to notice her cat suspiciously clawing at the bedroom door.

"Hey, what's up with Toby?" Or maybe he would notice either way. Shoot!

"Oh, uhm... He likes to lounge around on my bed. But I don't want his hair there, so I locked him out." She was getting good at lying. Good for her right now, not necessarily good in general.

John looked at her furrowing his brow. "The door was open the last time I was here. You didn't seem to mind."

Okay, maybe she wasn't such a good liar after all. That thought pleased and worried her at the same time. "I'm not very consistent, am I?" She gave a shrug. "I really don't like cat hair all over my bed, so I try to keep him out. Put he's just so cute and fluffy, what can I say?"

John turned back to the two mugs of tea, seemingly satisfied by Molly's answer, accompanied by her embarrassed glance back at the animal in question and a subtle blush on her face.

After placing the spoon, that he had used to stir in the milk and sugar, in the sink, John picked up the two mugs and turned to Molly with a big smile on his face. "I could do with some lounging myself."

Chuckling, Molly led the way to the living room, unceremoniously plopping onto her corner of the sofa. "I bought some biscuits." She gestured to the plate in front of them next to which John placed their mugs, turning Molly's so she could easily reach the handle. "Thanks." She smiled at John. "I still can't keep up with Misses Hudson, her biscuits are absolutely sublime. But at least now I have more than one kind to serve guests with and chances are, you might even like some this time."

John shot her a curious glance. "You bought biscuits for me?"

"No. Well... sorta... uhm... yes. I don't have many people coming over. My friend Meena pops in from time to time. But I thinks she's perpetually dieting. Don't worry, I'm not, I'm eating plenty of them myself!" Molly laughed.

John had only been to Molly's flat once before. On that day, she had just packed up work for the day when John had showed up at the morgue. It had been a long day and she had not felt like going to a café, instead inviting John back to her flat. She would have bought a couple of biscuits then, had the get-together not been entirely spontaneous. As it had turned out, there was only one kind of biscuit left and it was the one John couldn't stand. She had felt somewhat guilty munching away while there had been nothing she could have offered John. So, knowing they wouldn't be spending their tea-time at Baker Street as usual, she had planned to make up for that little mishap.

The two friends happily chatted away for a while in the familiar manner they had grown accustomed to over time. When all the casual subjects had been exhausted, they fell into a comfortable silence, contently sipping their tea.

It was John, who finally broke the silence.

"He mentioned you, you know?", he said, his eyes firmly on the mug in his hands.

Molly looked up.

"What?"

"Your name, Sherlock mentioned it... his... note..." Johns voice faltered and trailed off. He suddenly looked up at her, his tormented gaze meeting hers. "In his last phone call, he mentioned you. He was never good with people, was he?" he chuckled. "But he cared, I know he did. He cared for you, too."

"You're right", Molly frowned. "For all the genius that was Sherlock Holmes, his people skills were sincerely lacking." She looked up at him from her spot on the sofa, her legs tucked underneath her, a glint in her eyes. Her gaze met his and they started laughing.

For the first time since Sherlock's 'death', John Watson was laughing.

They rarely talked about Sherlock specifically, mostly dancing around the subject of his passing, only touching down on it superficially. Often, they talked about how things had changed, how they had changed and how they were working on moving on. But Sherlock himself seldom came up as the topic of their conversations.

Putting his mug down, John got up from the sofa, still smiling. "Well, I gotta get going. Promised Misses Hudson I'd bring her some supper, didn't I? It's gonna turn into a midnight snack, if I don't leave soon."

"Give her my best." Molly gave John a quick hug goodbye before closing the door behind him.

As one door clunked shut, another one opened behind her.

Turning around, Molly came to face Sherlock sitting on her sofa, reaching for the plate on the coffee table, Toby already curling up beside him.

"You bought biscuits for John?"


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's note. Nothing witty to say. Oh, except this: I forgot to write, that Sherlock took off his coat. He left it in the bedroom. Pretty obvious to me. But there you have it.  
_

_Yes, I stand by my previous statement: Nothing _witty_ to say._

**Chapter 9**

Molly looked at Sherlock wearily. "Yes, I bought biscuits for John."

"Why?"

"Why? Yes, why would I want to offer my guest tea and biscuits? I don't know. Common courtesy, maybe?" Molly quipped.

Sherlock leaned forward to reach for another biscuit. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Molly. It does not suit you."

Sighing, Molly made her way into the kitchen, pulling yesterday's Chinese take-away out of the fridge and sticking it into the microwave. She then proceeded to scoop the rice onto two plates, adding a slice of bread to both of them because the serving size was anything but generous, now that it had to be enough for two people.

Back in the living room, she sat down on the sofa with one plate in her lap, holding the other one towards Sherlock.

"No." Sherlock took yet another biscuit from the now almost empty plate on the coffee table. "I'm good."

Molly did not lower her hand with Sherlock's plate. "Biscuits are hardly appropriate for supper."

Sherlock just looked at her, holding a small biscuit out in front of him before pointedly sticking the whole thing into his mouth.

"Sherlock!" Molly groaned. "Most people might not be aware, but you are not _actually_ dead. As such, you need to eat. Properly." With that, she practically shoved the plate at him.

Shooting her a sideway glance, Sherlock finally took the plate and they shared their meal in silence.

Later, Molly sat on the sofa, her hands in her lap and her feet both firmly planted on the floor. She looked at Sherlock next to her, with his elbows on his knees and his fingertips touching in front of his face. Unlike the silence that had fallen between her and John earlier, there was nothing natural or comfortable about this one. Molly was unsure of what to do next.

"Why should I not have come?" Again it wasn't her breaking the silence. But when she opened her mouth to answer, the words didn't come.

Tilting his upper body to face her, Sherlock looked over at her. "Molly?"

Not knowing, where to look, Molly's gaze shifted from her hands in her lap to Sherlock's face to the mirror on the wall opposite them and back. "I... well... I just... uhm, you..." She finally managed to lock eyes with him. "Mycroft had me followed. Uhm... not sure, he was the only one. Is it safe for you?"

"Safe for now. You knew about Mycroft's people following you?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"It was either him or a limousine service trying their hand at subtle advertising." Molly shrugged. "I never confronted him about it. Didn't want to seem suspicious."

Sherlock leaned back, facing away from her again. "It was only Mycroft. He kept an eye on you for me, making sure nobody suspected your involvement. He's the only other person aware of the circumstances surrounding my... untimely demise."

For the first time really looking at him, Molly could clearly see the fatigue in his usually so sharp features.

"Most inconveniences have been successfully dealt with. I still have to investigate some of the spider web's threads, there might yet be unforeseen complications to my impending resurrection. For now, as much as I despise it, I need rest."

"The sofa is all yours." Molly leaped up and went to retrieve an extra blanket from her armoire, glad to have something to do. She did not notice Sherlock following her into her bedroom. When she turned around, she jumped as she saw him standing at the foot of her bed.

Swallowing audibly, Molly walked over to Sherlock, trying very hard to look determined and not at all intimidated by his sheer presence. She put the blanket down on the foot of the bed, opening her mouth to speak, but he was faster.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. Your bed is more than adequately sized for two people. I need rest, not sore muscles from sleeping on your sofa."

When Molly tried to say something this time, only a squeak came out.

For a moment, they both looked at her bed in silence. Again, it was Sherlock who broke it.

"Moriarty was never in it." It was not a question.

Molly blinked, slowly looking up at him. "No, never." The disdain in her voice was unmistakable.

"Obviously. The bed is older, you've had it for years. The paint on the frame has been touched up here and there, but not with much care. You didn't want it to look old and battered, but it's hardly one of your priced possessions. The mattress is not as firm as it used to be, so you've had it for a while, but it's certainly not old. The covers, however... The covers are clearly worn, yet you do not replace them. You patch them with much care and deliberation, you even bought matching fabric to masterfully mend them. They're your favorite. Obviously, these covers would be on your bed, freshly pressed, lovingly arranged, if you'd had any intention of engaging in sexual intercourse. Setting the mood, as it were... Of course, had you seduced Jim from IT in this very bed, only to discover the calculating criminal mastermind behind his facade, that would have certainly polluted the covers you hold so dear. The bed and the mattress would have been easily replaced, letting you rest easy once again. The covers, after being subjected to thorough and repeated washing, would have found their way to the very back of your armoire where they would have remained until such time when you would have managed to overcome the feeling of dread at the thought of resting your body on the very covers that had been nestled around your bare bodies during the act. You would have only put these covers on again at a time, when the sensation of this fabric on your skin no longer brought on the thought of being violated by James Moriarty."

Sherlock had barely finished his last sentence when Molly's hand landed on his cheek in a resounding slap.

Wide-eyed, he lifted his hand up to his reddening cheek as he stared down at Molly standing in front of him, fuming.

"Not good?"

Wordlessly, Molly picked up the extra blanket and shoved it towards Sherlock with entirely too much force, making him stumble backwards.

"Sofa."

"Molly..." Sherlock began.

"Sofa! Now!" Molly snarled, stepping out of the way as Sherlock slowly moved out of the room.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, she slammed the door behind him, almost hitting him in the rear.


	10. Chapter 10

_Changed to T for adult themes. Should have done so one chapter ago. Bare bodies, sexual intercourse and such. Even if hypothetical.  
_

_** SammyKatz**: Thank you for your first review. For sticking with me and for reviewing again and again! Sherlock is like a cat, isn't he? To get attention, he'd sit on John's laptop if he could... Meh, close enough :-p_

_** LadyK1138**: Second review :-) Seeing as this is my first fanfic (not ever, but in over 10 years and imho the first _good_ one...), it pretty much is my second review ever. And not the only one, at that. Thanks for hanging around and indeed - go, Molly!_

_** Renaissancebooklover108:** I love it, when Sherlock gets slapped. Period. No really, he pretty much has it coming. Constantly. We might love him to bits, but he can be quite the pompous, arrogant ass. So yeah, he'll probably get slapped quite a bit in my fics. *evil laugh*_

_** croony83:** Thanks for your review. Every word fuels me, makes me happy, keeps me going! :-)_

_** Anatomydoc:** Fantastic! (Who else just heard Eccleston?) More is on its way. The weekend will be busy, but I have tons more floating in my head and it shouldn't be too hard, getting it 'on paper', so to speak._

**Chapter 10**

Where had he gone wrong?

Sherlock was standing in the middle of Molly's dark living room, clutching a blanket to his chest and blinking at the door behind him.

His deduction had been accurate. In his thoughts, he walked through Molly's bedroom, examined her bed from every angle and he found his analysis of the data on hand to be sound.

Then what had the slap been for? Why had she ordered him out of her room?

Mentally going back to his deduction, he shifted his attention to Molly. Before he had brought up Moriarty, she had seemed shy, almost intimidated. At the mention of his name, her expression had very quickly changed to one of contempt.

That had been her first negative reaction. But surely not enough to kick him out.

Moving on.

Her face had shown mostly contempt for the first part of his deduction. He had seen a hint of curiosity in her eyes, obviously she was interested in hearing his conclusions and the reasoning behind them.

The next change in her expression had occurred at his mention of sexual intercourse. A faint blush, followed by the straightening of her shoulders and a slight lift of her chin. Embarrassment and defiance. No, defiance in the face of embarrassment.

Why? She was hardly a virgin, the thought of sex should not leave her flustered. Only it did. So she was sexually inhibited. Of course she was - self-conscious with self-esteem issues - how could she not be. So his casual remark had left her embarrassed, which clearly she did not want him to see. Ergo defiance. Obviously.

Still not enough to slap him, though.

"Oh!" Sherlock's eyes widened. Yes, of course!

Dismay, guilt, yet more defiance, anger. An array of emotions had flashed over Molly's face at the mention of Jim. Listening to his further explanations, guilt and anger had mingled on her face. With every word, however, the guilt had disappeared, leaving only anger in its place.

When anger had prevailed, even at the mention of naked bodies - which based on previously acquired data should have elicited another bout of embarrassment - he should have known.

His remark of James Moriarty violating her had been the final straw. She had felt guilty after finding out, that he had used her. That she had let him use her, not seeing behind his facade.

Molly had nothing to be guilty or embarrassed about. At his very first meeting with Moriarty in the lab, even he - Sherlock - had not seen behind the mask that had been Jim from IT. If he hadn't seen it, nobody could have possibly expected Molly to do so, no matter how many hours she had spent with him. Molly was smart enough to know that.

Still, Sherlock had found ordinary people to often have their conscious mind say one thing and their unconscious something entirely different. Molly might know better, but it didn't make her feel better. The lack of physical relationship did not matter. Molly did, in fact, feel violated. For him to refer to it as such was equivalent to sticking a salt covered finger into an open wound and wiggle it about.

Even Sherlock could see now, that was not good. Maybe a bit more than not good. John had definitely rubbed off on him.

Also not good was the prospect of sleeping on the sofa. It would just not do.

Reluctantly, Sherlock turned around and knocked on the bedroom door. "Molly?"

No answer, just the noise of bare feet shuffling over carpet. "Molly, I..." I what? Sherlock sighed. He knew, what he had to say. Then, why did he not just come out and say it? It wasn't that hard.

Taking a deep breath, he began again. "Molly,..." _I'm sorry_.

He did not get a chance to say it, the door flew open and Molly stood in front of him, looking sad and tired. Both physically and emotionally tired.

"No, you're not." _How did she...?_

"You really don't want to sleep on the sofa, do you?" she chuckled. "Just... Nevermind." Leaving the door open, Molly turned away from him and walked to her side of the bed, facing the window.

Sherlock still stood in the doorframe, mind racing. Molly had definitely become more self-confident, more outspoken. No longer being held back by her own, previously almost paralyzing insecurity, she had become bolder and more observant. She had also become harder to manipulate. Yet she had left the door open for him, an unspoken invitation to sleep on the other side of her bed after all. Just like that. Why?

"I put a shirt on the bed for you. Should be your size. I prefer oversized shirts over nightgowns. Plenty where that came from." She lay down and pulled the covers over herself, still facing away from him. "You always get your way in the end. Might as well make it easy on myself." She tangled her legs around the covers in an unspoken demand. _You've got your own blanket, this one's mine_.

"You're not in your usual sleep attire." Sherlock noted, looking at the purple sweatpants she was wearing under her plain grey, oversized shirt.

He could see her body tense, before she pulled the covers up further, snuggling into them. "Yeah, I usually don't wear pants. That didn't seem appropriate tonight." She sighed. "Haven't got any for you, though. Just... stay under the blanket with your briefs."

Sherlock made his way to the empty side of the bed, closer to the armoire. He quickly disposed of his clothes, donning the plain shirt matching Molly's. He pulled the extra blanket she had given him earlier over himself, laying flat on his back, his head resting on the pillow, an alarming shade of red with little white flowers all over it. Hideous as it was in his opinion, he found it to be extremely comfortable.

He felt himself drifting off to sleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Already half asleep he muttered, just barely audible.

"Boxers."


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you all for your reviews. It is so gratifying to see, that someone out there actually likes this story as much as I do ;-)  
_

_At this point, I have some things thought out, some things I just know where to lead. Others... not so much. So still there is much not written in stone. Also, I would propably add 'Humor' as a genre, if I could choose more than two._

_I am, however, pretty sure that this story will never achieve 'M'-status. Never say never, of course. I do enjoy my occasional upscale graphic Sherlolly, but for most parts I don't see Sherlock doing the things I am reading. Unless I can figure out a way to have these two have at it without - in my opinion - completely breaking character, this will be a pretty civilized affair. No pun intended._

_I actually wasn't sure, if this chapter was already taking it too far too quickly. I do like, where it is going, but that not necessarily means, it's the right path for this story as a whole.  
_

_Please, please, please review. If it doesn't strike a chord with my core audience, I might just dismiss it as wishful, inappropriate ramblings and rewrite this chapter. Yeah, I really need you guys. So... Rickroll!_

_Gotta make you understand. Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you._

**Chapter 11**

The next morning, Molly awoke to the monotonous beeping of her alarm clock. She stifled a yawn, slowly beginning to stretch, when all of a sudden, she stopped. Not daring to move, she felt the soft touch of fabric against her forehead and warm skin under the tips of her fingers.

Opening her eyes, Molly saw herself facing Sherlock's upper arm, her face gently touching his shirt sleeve and her hand just barely resting on his arm. Cautiously, she started pulling away, slowly rolling from her side to her back, trying hard not to wake Sherlock.

Had she listened to more than her own, seemingly thunderous heartbeat, she would have noticed Sherlock's breathing. More precisely, the irregularity of his breathing. He was already awake.

That became blatantly clear, when Sherlock let out a groan and rolled over Molly in one swift motion, slamming his hand down on her alarm clock.

With wide open eyes she stared up at him, clutching her bed sheet on both sides of her body and holding her breath. Sherlock's lower body was still mostly on his side of the bed, but she felt the weight of his hips pushing against her left side through both her covers and his blanket. For a moment, it had felt like his entire weight was on her chest, now their upper bodies were barely touching. She could feel the movement of his chest on hers, could feel his breath on her face as she shifted her gaze to meet his.

For a split second, it had appeared as if Sherlock's gaze had lingered on her partially open mouth, but he was looking straight into her eyes now with a slight squint and a curled upper lip. "That was irritating." With an annoyed huff he threw himself on the mattress next to her, landing in an awkward position somewhere between lying on his stomach and lying on his side.

Molly was left lying flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling, still clutching her bed sheet, her knuckles already completely white. Slowly, she let out the breath she had been holding as quietly as she could. Which failed miserably - it came out sounding a lot like a moan. She squeezed her eyes shut and winced, awaiting the onslaught of ridicule that was sure to follow from Sherlock.

But nothing came. Slowly releasing her bed sheet, she opened her eyes and dared to glance over at him. Without looking at him closely, she noticed his upper body gently moving rhythmically and was relieved to realize, that he had already fallen back asleep.

Quickly, she got out of bed and grabbed some clothes to get dressed in the bathroom.

Leaving her bedroom, she looked back at Sherlock's sleeping form in her bed.

She should not have done that.

Both the blanket and his t-shirt had shifted, revealing his lower back, most of his bare legs and a very distracting amount of what he had mentioned the evening before. His boxers. His simple black, incredibly tight boxers.

Sherlock was by no means a bulky man. At times, after days on a case, no proper food, no proper sleep, he had seemed a little gaunt, rawboned even. This was not one of those times.

His body, while lean, was clearly muscular and well defined. The position of his legs, the left stretched, the right bend off to the side, in combination with the tight fabric clinging to his skin made his bottom lock extremely smackable.

_Oh god_. Molly squeezed her eyes shut again and shook her head. _No, no, no_. This was not good. _Don't look, don't look, don't look_... She started slowly walking backwards, when she heard a sleepy moan from the bed.

Gasping, she jumped and scrambled backwards out of the room, hitting first her lower back and then her right shoulder hard on the doorframe. _Ouch_. She cringed. That was gonna bruise. And for the rest of the day it would painfully remind her of how exactly this had happened, what exactly she had been running from.

Not that she could ever forget the sight.

She would have to stop by a clothing store after work. No matter, how long Sherlock planned on staying - one month, one week, one night even - this was not good. She had to get him his own sweat pants.

Baggy, misshapen, unattractive sweat pants.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you so incredibly much for every review, you have no idea what that means to me!_

_I constantly have so many ideas and stories floating around in my head and this is the first time I have felt confident, that I could actually make a proper story out of it. One possibly even worth reading ;-)_

_I was so afraid to end up with one little, incomplete fanfic, withering in the darkest corner of this amazing site, no reviews or even readers in sight._

_But you guys are amazing. You make me want to write more, you make me want to write better. You are my real muse!_

_Shout out to **Anatomydoc**: My heart literally skipped a beat when I read your review. From the first word to the last, your review really means a lot to me. And I am very happy, that you regard my writing to be 'so good, and so much in character for both of them.' I am trying really, really hard to show a new and different side to these people without straying from their established character traits._

_Keep those reviews coming, they keep me going!_

**Chapter 12**

After a particularly long day at work - although for the life of her, she could not remember what had filled it - Molly took quite a detour home to get some shopping done.

She was careful not to go to any of her usual stores, she didn't want to risk being recognized while buying suspicious items. Those items being men's sweat pants, socks and boxer shorts.

Briefly, she had considered buying other things, that she did not really need, only to make these purchases, that were evidently not for her, less obvious. But according to Sherlock, nobody but Mycroft's men had kept an eye on her, so nobody was paying attention to her shopping habits. And strangers really wouldn't care, what she happened to buy.

Still, she'd rather be careful.

She had chosen a big department store quite far from her usual way home. One she'd never been to before and one, that let her disappear into the crowd. Just another face in the anonymous masses.

She took the tube half way home and a taxi from there, arriving home almost two hours late by her usual standards.

After closing the door behind her, she looked around her flat and found absolutely nothing to be out of place. That could mean an array of things.

One - Sherlock was being careful not to leave anything out of place, as she could return with company at any moment.

Two - Sherlock had really needed a lot of rest and was still in bed. In her bed. She took a deep breath, trying to get rid of the image of Sherlock's half naked body in her bed. She closed her eyes, tried to relax, but it only made things worse. The memory became much clearer without outside images distracting her from it. Quickly, she opened her eyes again and took a step back to lean against the door behind her. No, sleeping this long would not be feasible, it had been well over 20 hours. So...

Three - Sherlock had already left again. She felt her heart drop at the mere thought of this and really hoped, it was not the case. Taking a few steps into her flat, she timidly called out "Sherlock?"

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock appeared from her bedroom and walked right up to her.

"You're late."

"Yeah, well... I..."

"This is the second time in two days you have deviated from your usual schedule. Is everything alright with Misses Hudson?"

The concern in Sherlock's voice finale made Molly manage to shake the picture in her head.

"Oh no, Sherlock. Don't worry! Had a text from John today, Misses Hudson is doing much better. A little worn out now, at worst. No, I... went shopping."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise, as Molly opened her big, striped handbag, pulled out a scrunched up plastic bag and held it out towards him.

When he hesitantly took the bag, Molly quickly turned away from him, picking up her coat and handbag before making her way into the kitchen. "Uhm, it's a bit late to prepare an elaborate supper. Will beans and toast be okay?"

When she didn't receive an answer, she glanced around the corner and saw Sherlock slowly turning towards her, but still standing in the exact spot she had left him in.

In one hand, he was holding the open plastic bag, in the other a multipack of plain black boxers from which he now looked up at her with a questioning expression.

"Oh, uhm... It didn't look like you had brought anything and I really can't be doing laundry every day. You can hardly go out and do that yourself, now. Or at least you shouldn't, because it wouldn't really be safe. But when has that argument ever stopped you." Molly could barely contain a giggle. "Um, anyway. I hope, they're your size. I got you drawstring sweat pants, so you can adjust the size a little. Might be a bit big. " _Definitely are a bit big. For good reason._

"Yes, those pants seem a little on the big side. Socks and boxers however... Exactly my size." He looked at her with half a smirk. "You peeked."

Molly couldn't help but blush. "It's not peeking exactly. It was a bit hard to ignore. I mean, you're the one who practically threw himself at me." Wincing, she wondered how she always managed to put her foot into her mouth in the worst possible ways. "No! Not... I mean... Next to me! You threw yourself into my bed. Next to me. Half naked... I..."

Closing her eyes, Molly took a deep breath. She seemed to be doing this a lot the last two days. When she opened her eyes, she looked straight at Sherlock and the now full blown grin on his face.

"So, beans on toast sound good?"


	13. Chapter 13

_Changed from Drama to Humor. Seems to fit better. Also, I had this chapter written early on, when only 6 chapters had been published here. It was just a matter of getting them there. Some details have turned out differently than I'd originally planned and I had to rewrite this a little. I hope, it's not too evident._

_The medical text used in this chapter is an excerpt of the abstract of an article published in 'Forensic Science, Medicine, and Pathology', as mentioned in the chapter itself. The abstract is readily available at link DOT springer Dot com. The article was published in June 2013, but for the sake of this story, we'll just ignore that. Sherlock wouldn't have waited quite that long to show up on Molly's doorstep after his 'fall'._

**Chapter 13**

The following night proved to be even more awkward than the one before. Apart from the grey shirt, Sherlock had been wearing his new sweat pants, which turned out to be not quite as oversized as she had hoped.

She'd had a hard time falling asleep, as she could not get those images out of her head. Both of Sherlock's partially exposed body tangled in his blanket and of him lying pretty much on top of her after forcefully turning off her alarm clock.

The next morning, Molly finally managed to distract herself. She was glad, that she didn't have to work this weekend and planned on catching up on some relaxing reading. Not too relaxing, though. The sleepless night had left her overtired and she could just see herself falling asleep on the sofa with her face in a book.

Now, Molly was sitting on her corner of the sofa reading, her legs stretched out onto the stool in front of her. From looking down at the medical journal in her lap, her neck had become somewhat sore. She stretched her arms and tilted her head left and right before leaning back to let her head rest on the backrest of the sofa. She shook her arms slightly for a moment, resting her eyes before lifting the journal up to continue reading with her head tilted back.

She did not pay much attention to Sherlock pacing up and down in front of her. She found, it enervated her far less if she tried to ignore him. Subsequently, she did not notice Sherlock stopping right in front of the sofa and scowling down at the empty space beside to her. So it came as a surprise to her, when Sherlock sat down next to her and in one fluid motion brought his legs up to rest on the sofa and laid his head down onto her lap.

Molly's head shot up from its resting position and she quickly lifted her hands up in the air as if trying to avoid touching Sherlock. Letting out a small shriek, she dropped her journal onto his chest.

Unfazed, Sherlock picked up the journal and turned the page to the beginning of the article Molly had been reading. "Thank you."

For a moment, Molly just sat there, staring down at Sherlock's head in her lap, her hands still up in the air. Finally, she found her voice, albeit very timidly. "Uhm... Sherlock?"

"Molly...", Sherlock said with a warning tone. "I'm reading."

She didn't dare moving, her eyes darted across the room as of searching for help, for a way out of this. She took a deep breath. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Unnerved, Sherlock slammed the journal down onto his legs and rolled his eyes as he looked up at Molly. "I am _reading_. Please, do pay attention!"

As Sherlock continued reading, Molly finally brought her arms down. Her left arm came to rest comfortably on the armrest right next to her, the right one however hovered in mid air, swaying back and forth unsure before she decided to stretch it out on the back of the sofa.

"I can see that." Her voice was barely audible. "It's just, that... well... you... it's..." She sighed as her right arm began to twitch. With her neck and shoulder already sore, this position proved to be very uncomfortable. Wincing, she lifted her arm of the back of the sofa and brought it to her chest. This wasn't going to be much better. Hesitantly, Molly lowered her arm past the journal Sherlock was holding into the gap between him and the back of the sofa, her hand coming to rest just below his rips.

She shifted uncomfortably a little, but Sherlock did not react in any way. Not to her movement and not to her hand on his chest.

"Yes, I can see that you are reading", Molly repeated with a sigh. "But why is..." She hesitated. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Molly pushed on. "Why is your head in my lap?"

"You were in the way."

"I... what?"

Without looking up, Sherlock lowered the journal slightly. "Molly, will I really have to constantly repeat myself until the information finally gets through to that vacant little brain of yours? I do realize, you are a very ordinary person with a very ordinary mind. None the less, I had expected more from you with regard to your ability to process auditory data, particularly at this very crude level."

Molly pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. She let out a deep-drawn sigh before managing to reply.

"Fine. Please enlighten me. How has me being in the way led to your head in my lap?" Molly almost snarled at him.

Sherlock took his left hand of the journal to pat Molly's hand resting on his chest. "There, was that so hard?"

Molly took a deep breath, clenching her left hand to a fist and trying very hard, not to snap at him. She was certain he had observed just how much she was annoyed by him right now, but he continued as though he hadn't noticed a thing.

"Well, Molly. On my first night here, you did let me know in no uncertain way that I was not to lie down in your bed. In fact, you ordered me out onto the sofa. Although you later permitted me to indeed spend the night on your superiorly comfortable mattress, your mannerisms have let me know, that you'd welcome me occupying your sofa instead. Now however, you have taken up a not insignificant portion of said sofa and I found the remaining space to be insufficient. I was left with the choice to either tuck up my legs - which I find abhorrently uncomfortable - or to extend the lie down area to you. Further, I have concluded your upper legs to provide better head support than the armrest on the opposite side of the sofa, thus lying down with my feet on said armrest and my head in your lap." He finally glanced up at her. "Satisfied?"

"Uhm... Yes." Molly blinked, before her uncertain features slowly warped into a smile. "Very."

She continued looking down at him even after he had returned to reading her medical journal. It didn't take long for him to look back up at her, irritation clearly written all over his face.

"Are you just going to stare at me, then?", he snapped at her.

"You took my journal, so..." Her voice trailed off as she timidly shifted her gaze to the suddenly very interesting fingernails of her left hand.

"Yes, 'Forensic Science, Medicine, and Pathology'. Very predictable." Sherlock sneered without looking at the cover.

When Molly's demeanor didn't change, Sherlock straightened out the journal in his hands with a groan. "Oh, dear god!" He cleared his throat. "Circumstantial and toxicological features of deaths from self-administered intravenous anesthetic/narcotic agents."

Molly's gaze immediately snapped back from her fingers to his face in surprise as he began reading to her. He continued. "For a better understanding of circumstantial and toxicological findings of fatalities resulting from self-administration of intravenous anesthetic/narcotic agents,..."

Her initial perplexity at this very novel situation yielded to a slowly spreading sense of contentment as she began to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock's head in her lap, his tenderly heaving chest under her hand and the sound of his baritone, which seemed to slowly vibrate through her entire body.

"... medico-legal autopsy files of the State Institute of Legal and Social Medicine Berlin from 1998 to 2011 were reviewed retrospectively. Of a total of 15,300 autopsies,..."

Molly relaxed noticeably, she let her before tense body slowly sink into the sofa cushion, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.

"... 9 cases of such deaths were identified, and all were health care professionals. Medical supplies for injection were found still on, or near, the body at the scene..."

Molly was so relaxed in fact, she did not notice her right arm snaking closer to Sherlock, her hand moving from just below his rips, coming to a rest squarely on his chest as her left hand inched towards his head, leisurely twirling his locks around her fingers.

Sherlock however did very much notice. Her hand moving up his chest had not come as a surprise to him. Her arm's position mostly next to his torso had been uncomfortable for her at best. Given her earlier wincing while moving her arm, it was more likely even slightly painful. She had become increasingly comfortable with the situation, so her moving her arm into a more agreeable position was an expected consequence. Her other hand suddenly in his hair by all means wasn't.

Feeling her fingers glide through his hair, his voice momentarily broke. Molly didn't seem to notice or didn't think anything of it. It was clear to Sherlock, that Molly's caress occurred very absentmindedly. To Sherlock's astonishment he had absolutely no desire to point it out to her.

He did not want it to stop.


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks again for all the reviews! :-)_

_So far, this is the longest we have gone without an update. Good reason for that, too._

_See, I live in Switzerland. And the first of August is our equivalent of Independence Day. There are those, who prefer 'celebrating into it', so lots of partying on July 31st. More partying, obviously, on August 1st. Lots of events, noise, fireworks. As I happen to be on 'the board' (really too fancy in this context) of a organization aiming at arranging events for pre-school aged children, there was lots of work to be done around those days._

_Immediately followed by - drum roll please - my 7th wedding anniversary on August 2nd. Celebrated by a whooping two hours of 'freedom' thanks to both my mother and my mother in law. Because, while I am insane enough to have three kids, apparently nobody else wants them all at once ;-) That's the other thing: School's out for summer. How do I get anything done? I mean, when I'm not neglecting my motherly duties?_

_No, just kidding. Don't call child services on me, I am really quite lovely. Once you get past the layer of weird. My kids don't mind. They'll each get a handmade (somewhat simplified) replica of Gimli's axe, once they manage to sing 'Far over the Misty Mountains'. Although my second born prefers 'That's what Bilbo Baggins hates'. Meh, I'll accept it. (The only 'music' my youngest makes are vibrations in his diapers. So he'll have to wait...) I'd make little beards and armor, but they wouldn't wear it anyway. Oh, and I still have them convinced, that every kid has to know the star wars theme. But I won't let them play with my Tardis or sonic screwdriver. Mine! *my precious*_

_Anyway, on top of my three hairless hobbits, I'm also going to house my nephew for a few days, starting Sunday evening. Until... whenever I've had enough, I guess. Would be yesterday, really. I'm weird, not insane. Four kids, seriously?! But I'm also nice, self-destructively nice. And my sister is oh so pregnant with her second one. Yeah, I remember that. Fun times. Not._

_Long story short: The next update to this story might take a while. Even if the little, muggle-born, yet to be indoctrinated wannabe geek won't stay all that long, I won't get anything done with him here and will need a while to rehabilitate the household of my little hobbit hole. These dwarves just don't pick up after themselves!_

_(Can you tell, I'm in withdrawal! No Doctor Who, no new Hobbit, no Sherlock, no Supernatural... Merlin is done, Stargate has ended long ago, X-Files even longer, and - honestly - I am still crying myself to sleep over Firefly. Plus, there is not enough time in any of my days for WoW, Skyrim or the Old Republic. On the plus side, I got new books for my wedding anniversary. The Simarillion, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy and Unfinished Tales. But I am still not done with the epic Firefly FanFic penned by the amazing badkarma00, the Shade Tales: fanfiction_DOT_net/u/1341518/badkarma00 - Browncoats Unite! __ Speaking of which: All of my kids seem to enjoy the Ballad of Serenity, my oldest even singing along with me._)

_Seriously, though, I'm going bonkers here. My husband doesn't understand any of my references anymore (I seem to only speak in references at the moment. Might aswell be Klingon...) and Amazon has just sent me a friendly e-mail letting me know, the 'curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal'-shirt I ordered is no longer in stock. So I write fanfiction and craft Gimli's axe times three (or rather make my husband do it, 'cause he's better at it *cough*) to pass the time. Oh, and a castle. We're working hard on building a little drawbridge castle for our kids. Maybe we should make some bows and arrows, too. So they could have proper fun storming each other's castles. Get it? *snicker*_

_Ok, I'll stop now. My fangirl shows. OMG. *dies*._

**Chapter 14**

Molly was dozing off when a sudden buzzing sound startled her. She lifted her head off the back of the sofa and looked around, slightly disoriented.

Her senses not yet having completely returned to the waking world, she looked down at the weight in her lap, fully expecting to see Toby. Her eyes widened, when she instead saw Sherlock, his gaze firmly fixed on a journal propped up on his chest. Right next to her right arm.

It took her only a moment to remember what had happened earlier. She started looking to the left where she knew her silenced, now buzzing mobile phone was lying on the small side table, when she suddenly stopped and jerked her left hand into the air.

Staring down at Sherlock, she saw him grimace, but keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the medical journal in his hands. "I'd prefer you not doing that."

"I... I'm sorry, I didn't... I wasn't... not intentionally..." Not quite sure what to say, she slowly started to pull her right arm away, wanting to cease all physical contact. But Sherlock removed his left hand from the journal, reached out for her arm and held on to her wrist, now slowly looking up at her.

"Not your hand in my hair." He blinked, momentarily braking eye contact "I didn't mind that. But in the future, I'd like you to not remove it quite as forcefully." With that, he returned both his hand and his gaze back to the journal.

Molly stared down at Sherlock, slowly lowering her left hand next to his head. _In the future.._. Her right arm snaked its way back over Sherlock's chest to its previous, comfortable position. _In the future..._ Slowly, gently, she reached out with the fingers of her left hand, just barely touching the tip of a curl. _In the future._ Almost unnoticeably, her fingers worked their way through his hair, gently twisting a single lock around them.

A low humming sound escaped Sherlock's lips and he tensed. Just barely, but enough for Molly to know, that the little noise had not been intentional.

She became bolder, her fingers caressing his forehead, his temples, always returning to his curls. She became lost in caressing his hair and scalp, intently watching Sherlock's features for the barely noticeable signs of enjoyment, pleasure even. So lost, that she froze for a moment, when she noticed, where her right hand happened to be.

She had been so engrossed in the workings of her left hand, of the fingers of her hand, that she had been absolutely unaware of her right hand slowly traveling down Sherlock's chest, now a lot closer to his belt buckle than to the journal in his hands.

Molly suppressed the impulse of just jerking her hands away as she had done before. Instead, she slowly disentangled the fingers of her left hand from Sherlock's hair, reaching for the phone she had only just remembered. She switched the phone to her right hand and held it close to her face, as she put her other hand down on the armrest, reasonably far from Sherlock's head of curls.

"Oh!" Molly's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the missed call on her display and the name that accompanied it. She quickly called back and received an answer after only two rings.

"Misses Hudson? It's Molly. Sorry I missed you. I... was busy." A gentle blush crept up her cheeks, but soon disappeared as she listened to the woman on the other end.

Sherlock could only hear Molly's part of the conversation and felt the tension rise in him as he heard the worry in her voice.

"Of course. No, don't worry. It's no bother. Of course not. I'll be over right away. See you then." She hung up and gently pushed against Sherlock's shoulder, signaling him to get off her lap. Now, that her mind was elsewhere, she was no longer overanalyzing the whole situation and her movements came more natural. Without a second thought, she gently stroked Sherlock's hair one last time before getting up and moving to her bedroom to get properly dressed. She wasn't going to leave her flat in an oversized shirt and purple sweat pants.

When she moved past the sofa to get ready to leave the flat, Sherlock's eyes followed her, his brows furrowed. "Problem?"

"Nothing, it's fine." Molly quickly put on her shoes and coat, rifling through her handbag to make sure, she wasn't forgetting anything. "It will be fine."

"Well, which is it?" Sherlock was clearly annoyed.

"What?" Molly shot him a questioning look as she went to the door.

"Is it fine or will it be? It will be fine clearly indicates, that it is not presently so. Begging the question, if this development happens to be factual or merely wishful thinking."

Without hesitation, Molly quickly walked over to the sofa where Sherlock was sitting upright now. She gently cupped his right cheek in her hand as she leaned over and planted a tender kiss on his other cheek. Moving back, she looked into his eyes - widened in surprise - and stated, with a tone that left no room for doubt, "It _will_ be fine."


	15. Chapter 15

_Dearest readers. Thank you so much for your nice comments on both the story and my parenting style ;-)_

_This update took a very long time compared to what you're used to from me. The thing is, my youngest boy must have been bored. He must have thought, riding in an ambulance would be fun. Or maybe he has developed sherlockian traits and has deemed breathing to be boring. So he stopped._

_He's home now after spending a couple of days at the hospital. He probably aspirated (i.e. nearly choked on his own vomit), nothing else could be found. Except intestinal bleeding. Which was unrelated and stopped on its own after a while. There's a theory as to why that happened, but it could not be verified. Which unfortunately does not exclude it. So now, with no symptoms, the doctors are just waiting for them to come back. Might be tomorrow, might be next year, might be never. So basically my son is a ticking time bomb with a possibly faulty fuse._

_Last time it was a slow bleed, not bad enough to do something about it. Thankfully, it stopped before that changed. But next time - which we are hoping to wait for in vain - it could be very different. So I'm basically constantly staring at him, waiting for him to go pale or something. And every time he gets tired, I check if he's also dizzy or his legs are weak. Might be sudden blood loss. Might be a mother's paranoia._

_This whole thing happened almost two weeks ago, but even with him back home, things have been a little crazy. His big brothers didn't handle it so well, they're only 4 and 6, the situation at home has been somewhat difficult and exhausting. So while I would have had the time to write my story down, I doubt it would have been any good. Exhausted minds don't care all that much for sentence structure and spell checking. Please let me know, if my mind could use some more rest ;-)_

_And before this whole doom and gloom scenario took place, I had written a little something down for an author's note with a much more chipper tone. I'll include it now anyway, because... well... I don't care, you can't take the sky from me!_

_The middle nerd, four of age, bought a playmobil space shuttle with two guys. First I thought 'cool, I'll call it Serenity' but then I actually looked at it. Those two guys look angry. Outright mean. And they have an A on their uniforms. Now, that could be the disgruntled scarlet-letter-brigade, ugly bearded Demi Moores (I would be disgruntled, too), but I doubt it. So, who flies around in a shuttle, uniforms marked with A and scowls to match Sherlock's 'I have no friends'-expression? The Alliance!_

_"The Alliance?!" I exclaimed. "You bought an Alliance space shuttle? I don't like the Alliance. Browncoats unite!"_

_Silence._

_"No?" I say, looking between my mini-mes, finally resting my gaze on my youngest, my fist still high in the air. "Browncoats unite?"_

_"Ya." he nods an turns away, his two older brothers just shrugging, turning back to the new Alliance shuttle. My only consolation is, that it usually takes them five minutes to lose new stuff. The Alliance soldiers will be adrift in the black before they know it._

_(Author's note to the author's note: Yep, Alliance shuttle is out of commission, awaiting repairs. Plus: I didn't send my four year old shopping by himself. He had some birthday money left and his father took him to the store. Yeah, that one's sure not a nerd or he would have known not to bring the Alliance into my home... :-p)_

**Chapter 15**

When the taxi pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street, Misses Hudson opened the door, before Molly had even gotten out of the car. She glanced down at her with a worried expression, but managed a smile, as she held her arms out to greet her. "Molly, dear... Thank you for coming."

Molly wrapped her arms around the older woman in a quick hug. "Hello, Misses Hudson." Pulling away, she returned the smile. "Is he upstairs, then?"

Misses Hudson didn't answer, but turned around and led the way to the stairs, holding on to the banister, staring up at seemingly nothing.

"I didn't know, what to do." she whispered, keeping her worried gaze fixed on an invisible point at the top of the stairs. "He's gone quiet before, but not like this. He's not just withdrawn like those other times. He seems so... lost." She clutched her chest with her free hand, now turning to look at Molly. Her own pain was clearly visible on her face, her eyes looked at Molly in a silent plea for help.

Starting to climb up the stairs, Molly gave Misses Hudson a reassuring smile. "But he's not alone."

Reaching the landing, she peered around the corner of the open door into the living room and frowned at the scene in front of her. John was kneeling on the floor, his back to her, surrounded by books and papers, little bits and pieces of what were clearly Sherlock's possessions strewn all around him, while the skull rested in his limp hands. His shoulders conveyed none of his usual military composure, slumped down they completed a sad picture with his arched back and his bowed head.

No, it had definitely never been like this. He had seemed sad and distant before, absorbed by his thoughts and memories of the friend he had lost. But this was not a man saddened by the loss of someone dear to him. This man was completely and utterly devastated.

Molly walked up next to John, shifting a few things out of the way to kneel down beside him. Without saying a word, she reached for John's hands, wrapping her fingers around his, careful not to knock the skull down. John's grip tightened around hers, a gentle squeeze of his hand and a subtle straightening of his shoulders acknowledging her presence.

For a long time, they both just sat there. If either of them noticed Misses Hudson sneaking up and down the stairs to check on them once in a while, they didn't let on. After what seemed like hours to Molly, John finally spoke up.

"I can't keep his things. Wherever I look, wherever I turn, he's there, staring back at me through books and pictures and vials of stuff I don't even want to know, what's in it."

Molly didn't say a word, just holding John's hand, giving him space to voice his feelings in his own time.

"I can't keep all these things. I wanted to go through them, separate what's thrash from what I could give to Mycroft or to charity. I have to do that." His voice breaking, he turned to face Molly, a single tear rolling out of the corner of his eye. "But I can't."

He held up the skull with one hand, not releasing his grip on Molly. "All these things are Sherlock. His story, his life. These things are all that is left of him." He lowered the skull back into his lap, his shoulders shaking with a sob he could no longer contain. "And I'm drowning in it. But I can't let it go."

"There's more." Molly spoke up for the first time, earning her a questioning glance from John. "Left of him, I mean." She reached out to wipe the tear of his cheek, letting her hand gently rest against his face. "There's us, John. All these things are just that. Things. Keep them, toss them, give them away. It doesn't matter. Because in the end there's always us. He will never leave us."

John set down the skull, reaching for Molly's hand on his cheek instead as he turned away from her. "But he did. And the things he said... the things they are writing... I just don't understand."

"Oh, John, no! You can't believe a word in those papers. You knew Sherlock, the real Sherlock. We might not know, what exactly happened on that roof, but no matter what those people write about him, we know it was Moriarty's doing." Molly tried to catch John's gaze, but he was clearly avoiding eye contact.

What exactly had happened on the roof that day, Molly didn't know. She knew every detail about Sherlock's fall but next to nothing about the rest. Mycroft had simply let her know, that the roof had been cleared and Moriarty would no longer pose a problem. She wasn't sure, why he had told her this. Maybe, because she had helped Sherlock. Maybe, because he wanted her to know, that the man who had used and betrayed her would never be able to reach her again. She didn't know anything else.

John shook his head. "Of course it was Moriarty. I would never doubt Sherlock. But he himself said it on the phone before he... he fell. He called himself a fraud. He said all the things the papers are now writing about him." He squeezed her hands as he looked at her again. "It's not true, none of it. But I just don't understand..."

Molly blinked. She hadn't known that. Sherlock had admitted being a fraud to John? Why?

"I didn't know that." She admitted. "But it really doesn't matter. However he managed, Moriarty did this. All of it and it doesn't change the man Sherlock was."

She shook her head and reached for the skull in front of John, holding it up to their faces. "Now, what do you say we put this stuff into boxes and don't get rid of it? I've got a storage compartment just outside the city and it's half empty. His things wouldn't be gone, but you would get a little more space to breathe."

"We? You would help me with this?"

"Of course." Molly smiled at John and he visibly straightened up. "You are not alone in this. Remember? There's always us."

They both smiled as Misses Hudson came up behind them with an empty box in her hands, her sneaking around not having gone unnoticed. She took the skull from Molly and gently placed it into the box. "There's always us."


	16. Chapter 16

_Thank you for all your wishes for my son. So far so good, he's doing well. All three boys are still not quite back to their usual selves after the youngest's sudden hospitalization, but so far so good. Now we wait and see._

_Thank you of course for your always welcome reviews! That's what I'm really here for, not to whine about anything..._

_There's one part in this chapter, that I struggled with a bit and after about four rewrites, I still don't think it's perfect. If you can tell, which part I am talking about, it might need another rewrite. And if everyone thinks, it's a different part, I might just have to rethink my muse on this one ;-)_

**Chapter 16**

Molly made her way into her flat, setting down the heavy box before closing the door. Looking around, she found absolutely nothing out of place, except Toby scratching at her bedroom door once more.

Peeling of her handbag and coat, she could barely contain a smirk, as she called out. "All clear."

Her bedroom door flew open and Sherlock crossed the space between them in quick strides. Standing in front of Molly, it took him only a moment to visibly relax. The shadow of a smile appeared on his face. "It's fine, then?"

Had it been anyone else, Molly would have been surprised. She would have expected questions after disappearing like that and being gone for not only the whole day, but also for the better part of the evening. But this was Sherlock. He had probably figured out everything of importance by the way she had placed her purse on the dresser or by the color of the box between them. So she just smiled up at him. "It is."

Molly stepped around Sherlock and made her way to the kitchen to fix some tea. Sherlock picked up the box in front of him and carried it to the dining table. Opening the box, he took out his microscope and his skull, peering inside at his violin. "He's getting rid of me, then?"

For a moment, the only sound in the flat was the water reaching a boil. After a while, Sherlock heard a faint whisper coming from the kitchen. Anyone less perceptive might have missed it.

"Don't."

"Don't?" He asked with a frown.

"Don't be dead, Sherlock. Not tonight. Not to me. I've spent all day wading through the carnage your supposed death has left us with and I don't think I can take any more. So just... breathe. Be happy. Stick some bellybutton lint under your microscope or whatever strikes your fancy." She reached the table with two cups of tea, placing one in front of Sherlock. Frowning, she set her mug next to his and reached for his hand to divert his attention from his violin.

"You might be officially dead, but he isn't. And Misses Hudson isn't. It's been weeks, Sherlock, months even. You can't expect us to hang on forever. We all miss you, we all love you. But life goes on."

Not realizing, what exactly she had said just then, not taking in Sherlock's temporarily stunned expression, Molly moved towards her bedroom and disappeared for a couple of minutes before emerging in the oversized shirt and sweatpants matching Sherlock's attire.

When she stepped out of her room, she took in Sherlock's solemn expression and for a moment considered just turning back. She took half a step backwards, fidgeting with her fingers, before she finally straightened up and walked over to the table. Sitting down, she reached for her mug and held it close to her face with both hands, staring intently at the hot liquid inside.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock take a seat and reach for his tea as well. For a while, they just sat there in what Molly felt to be a very uncomfortable silence. But she was sure, that Sherlock was quite indifferent to it. It startled her, when he spoke up.

"So he's moving on. That's... that's good." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Healthy. Is it?"

He glanced at her from the side and it was all she could do, not to let her jaw drop and stare at him wide eyed. Was he unsure? Sherlock didn't stammer, he didn't repeat himself, he didn't ask questions. Sherlock was always firm and straightforward, commanding and detached. But that, she realized, was exactly his problem here. He was detached. He didn't show his feelings like other people did.

Looking up at him over her mug, she saw the question written in his eyes, the uncertainty in his frown and it became clear to her, that Sherlock simply didn't have the feelings other people did. It was obvious from his expression, that he was well capable of emotions, but his perception of them was so different from that of most other people, he had a hard time understanding those others.

For the first time, Molly recognized the difficulties Sherlock must have been facing on a daily basis. Both his mind and his emotions worked on a different level than those of the people surrounding him. He knew the innermost workings of his opposite at a glance, knew how to interpret what he saw, was capable of observations on a level others couldn't even begin to grasp - but he did not understand.

She lowered her mug onto to the table and turned to face Sherlock. Her mouth spread into a smile and she saw the barely noticeable frown slowly disappear from his features.

"Yes, it is."

Sherlock relaxed visibly and turned his attention to the tea in front of him and silence engulfed them once more.

Molly felt, that she finally understood, why he did not engage in social interactions like most people and knowing this, she suddenly became a lot more comfortable in his presence. The silence between them did not need to be awkward. When talking was not a necessity to Sherlock, he simply wouldn't. He in no way felt the need to breach the silence and now, neither did Molly.


	17. Chapter 17

_As always, I appreciate every review and yearn for more! Seriously, every time my Smartphone alerts me to a new e-mail, I hope it's one of you lovely people giving me feedback!_

_I've got the next two or three chapters already written in my head. But every time I try to actually put it in to words it just sounds like 'he said, she said, then he said, but she said and he said, she said...' *barf* I'll try to do better before uploading ;-)_

**Chapter 17**

Molly had just finished her tea and gotten up to leave the table, when she turned around to face Sherlock.

"He didn't get rid of anything, you know. John, he tried, but... Well, it's in my storage compartment now, I've got the only key. You know.. he won't know, this is missing. Didn't see me take it." She glanced at Sherlock's possessions on her kitchen table. "I took all the boxes to storage by myself and told John to stay with Misses Hudson. Did lots of packing, too, didn't she. When she should have been resting after being ill. Anyway... Most of your things are there now, if you need anything, just... I can, well, yes, you know, I've got the key."

Sherlock was still sitting at the table, mug of tea in front of him, looking up at Molly with an expression she could not place. Curiosity at first, maybe? Wanting to know about her day with John and Misses Hudson. There had definitely been a flash of concern at the mention of Misses Hudson having been ill, possibly overexerting herself. And after that - what? Annoyance at her stammering? Or amusement?

The silence between them had turned into a comfortable one not long ago. But Molly did not kid herself, she knew that she managed to be socially awkward in the most comfortable of circumstances. She had proven that just now, so annoyance or amusement would have been what she was expecting to find, but she could truly not read his expression at all, even though she was sure it wasn't indifference.

But just looking at him, unable to figure it out, made her even more nervous. So she turned away. "Well, I've gotta... I will... Um, I'm in the shower."

On any other day, Molly would have relaxed with a nice long shower, leaving the water running just a bit too hot, creating her own little steam room. But Sherlock sitting at her kitchen table made her opt for a quick shower, instead. She did, however, take her time with moisturizing. Her sensitive skin would pay her back with itchy dryness otherwise.

Now dressed in only her sweat pants, she was just about to pour a little more body lotion onto her hand, when suddenly the door flew open and Sherlock stepped inside.

With a shriek, Molly dropped the bottle and took a step backwards, instinctively raising her hands as if to protect herself. It took her only a small moment to recover from her shock and she quickly wrapped her arms around her bare chest.

Sherlock was looking at the bottle on the floor in front of her, but she could have sworn, that his face had portrayed his own shock just an instant ago.

She felt rooted to the spot, even as Sherlock stepped forward, coming closer to her. His eyes never left the bottle at her bare feet, her wide open eyes never left his face.

"Moisturizer. Of course." Only now, he looked up at her. There was something... dark in his eyes. But again she couldn't place it. "After I heard the water of the shower stop running, I gave you more than enough time to dry off, get dressed and arrange your hair for the night. Knowing your ability for multitasking, I am sure dental hygiene could have been executed simultaneously. But of course, I should have seen your need for moisturizing. Your complexion, light, delicate." His voice had turned to merely a whisper and it startled her, when he spoke up louder after this. "Of course, you prefer inodorous lotion, made it harder to tell."

He bend down to pick up the bottle, his head passing dangerously close to Molly, causing her to take in a sharp breath. When Sherlock straightened up again with the lotion in his left hand, Molly felt like having finally regained her composure only to have it crumble, when the fingertips of Sherlock's hand gently brushed against her arm over her chest. She stared down at his hand, watching it make the soft strokes she felt against her skin, giving her goose-bumps. Looking up at his face, her mouth and eyes wide open, she saw his gaze intently fixed on his hand on her arm. On her chest.

"I was wrong." He whispered, not removing his hand.

She wanted to ask him, about what, but when she tried, only a soft squeal escaped her lips.

His fingers made their way up her arm, his eyes following the movement. "The size of your breasts." He had understood her unspoken question. Reaching her shoulder, he let his fingers slowly glide over her collarbone as he finally looked up at her. "They're not too small at all."

Before Molly had any time to reply, Sherlock had already pulled away and walked around her, placing her lotion bottle next to the sink with her shirt. Slowly turning, she heard the shower curtain being pulled to the side and her eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock taking off his shirt. His back had been to her, but now he turned to face her, his thumbs in the waistband of his sweat pants he raised his eyebrows at her. "Do you mind?"

Molly managed to suppress another squeal and turned her back to Sherlock. She inched sideways towards the sink and grabbed her shirt between her fingers without removing her arms from her chest. She awkwardly pulled the door almost closed with her feet, before she finally was out of Sherlock's sight and lowered one hand from her chest to pull it closed entirely.

Molly stood in the hallway, staring at the now closed door, as she heard the shower running and clutched her shirt to her chest wide eyed.

What had just happened?


	18. Chapter 18

_Again, thank you for every single one of your reviews. Please keep them coming!_

_Okay, so this one ended up being a bit longer than intended. 'My' characters just won't stick to the script, adding tons of little details that I hadn't originally envisioned. But as if you mind... *snicker*_

_Also, I consider this to be still very much on the T-side of things, please let me know if you believe otherwise ;-)_

**Chapter 18**

With Sherlock still in the shower, Molly was pacing in her room, confused and slightly angry. Sherlock had no impulse control, it almost drove her up the wall!

Abruptly, Molly stopped her pacing as she realized, that Sherlock was indeed in control of his impulses. If he had one thing, it was control. He simply chose to give in without restraint, he did whatever he wanted.

Staring back at door, Molly shook her head. So, touching her had been what he wanted? Looking at her breasts? Because even with her arms crossed in front of her bare chest, covering her modesty, it had seemed, like Sherlock had seen it all, like she couldn't hide from him. But then he had just walked away. Had he simply had enough?

Without hesitation, Molly walked over to her side of the bed and threw the covers back. Well, this was a game two could play, she thought and a grin spread over her face.

When Sherlock entered the bedroom only a few minutes later, he saw Molly wrapped in her blanket, covered all the way up to her chin, her eyes closed. This was unusual for her, but understandable after the incident in the bathroom. Being that exposed to him might have given her the need to hide now, protect her modesty after the fact. But then she should have been facing the wall, not his side of the bed.

He furrowed his brows in confusion, but chose not to dwell on this little mystery. Molly had occupied far too many of his thoughts as of late. He didn't regret touching her earlier in the bathroom. He had wanted to do it and it had been a pleasant experience at first. After reaching her collarbone, he had wanted to let his fingers travel further down, possibly even pull her arm out of the way. But it had been too much, he had wanted that too much. It had felt like losing control and he had to pull away.

The sentiments, which had only recently developed in him in their present form, were now evolving and taking on a disturbing magnitude. He did like the feelings Molly had begun to stir in him, but their intensity was unsettling.

He needed to be in control, he couldn't have it slipping away from him. He wouldn't have his superior mind clouded by such common desires, no matter how seemingly overwhelming they became.

With this in mind, he made his way to the bed. He was sitting straight on the mattress, having drawn his legs up and was now reaching for the blanket at his feet to cover himself. Before he had a chance to lie down, however, a movement to his right made him stop in his tracks.

Molly had thrown her covers back and sat up next to him in one swift motion. She was now kneeling and facing him. As he looked past her legs in her purple sweat pants, he saw something, he had missed before, only being able to see it now from this different angle.

Her shirt lay neatly folded on the floor next to her side of the bed.

Sherlock looked up into Molly's face, surprised to find only traces of the nervousness he had expected, but a whole lot more determination. His eyes darted over her body, taking in every detail, before returning back to her face, eyebrows still raised in surprise. Her expression showed just as much determination as it had a moment ago, but he could tell, that she grew increasingly nervous.

His eyes wandered back down, slower this time. For some reason he felt the need to familiarize himself with every inch of her bare chest, even though his quick glance earlier had told him everything he needed to know. He took a deep breath, turning his head to look down at his feet, where his hand was frozen mid-motion, still reaching for his blanket. But as he did so, he heard a barely audible sigh and felt Molly's weight shift away from him and his hand darted to her side, holding her wrist, and thus her, firmly in place.

After he assured himself, that she was no longer trying to move away, he released her wrist, but didn't remove his hand. Instead, he shifted into a more comfortable position, now fully facing her, and let his hand travel up her arm to her shoulder, following the movement with his eyes. Again, his fingers gently caressed her collarbone, this time on the other side, slowly making their way to her right shoulder. But this time, instead of pulling away, he kept slowly lowering his hand, never breaking the contact of his fingertips to her soft skin.

As his hand glided down the side of her breast, he heard her emit a low moan, saw her nipple stiffen and felt goose bumps slowly spread over her skin in response. He couldn't help but hum in appreciation. This simple sound drew yet another moan from her and made her arch her back slightly, pushing her chest towards him, as his hand slowly kept moving down, finally resting on her hip.

Sherlock lifted his left hand, reaching out for her other hip and slowly moved up from there, cupping her breast in his hand. He heard her breath catch and felt her quiver under his touch, as he gently rubbed his thumb over her nipple, slowly raising his eyes to meet her gaze.

Molly was looking straight at him, her lips slightly parted with no sign of nervousness remaining in her features. Only desire.

Sherlock could tell, she was holding back for his benefit. There was no doubt, that what she really wanted to do, was push him down onto the bed, possibly even straddle him as she returned his caress. But she restrained herself as best she could, letting him explore her soft skin in his own time, letting him remain in control. With his thumb still gently rubbing circles over her erect nipple, her restraint was slowly fading, as evident in her uneven breathing and her quivering body.

His left hand never ceasing its activity, Sherlock let his right hand gently glide over Molly's hip up her back, until reaching her neck. In doing so, he had moved closer to her. He could now feel her heaving chest against his and her breath on his face.

Sherlock lowered his head past hers, his lips touching her neck in a gentle kiss and Molly's restraint finally broke. She threw her head back and buried her left hand in his hair, as she didn't even try to suppress the very audible moan escaping her throat. When Sherlock responded by tightening his grip both on her neck and breast, his mouth wandering up her neck to just below her ear, Molly pushed her chest against him further, leaning into his touch, as she drew her right arm back, giving his hand more space.

Molly tilted her head back, gently holding on to Sherlock's hair so he wouldn't follow her. Her intention had been to kiss him fiercely, but once she saw his face, she hesitated. His expression was the same dark one she had seen before, only a lot more intense, but she was only now able to place it. His eyes were dark with desire.

But that wasn't what had made her stop. Mingled with his undeniable desire, Molly could see fear. Of what, she wasn't sure, but she didn't want to push him. Instead, she leaned forward, gingerly placing kiss after kiss on his jaw line and wrapping her arms around him, finally pulling him into a gentle hug, which he returned.

After a short while, Sherlock reached around her for her blanket, drawing it all the way over her bare shoulders and partially over himself, as he pulled her down with him. Her head came to rest on his shoulder and with his right arm still firmly around her, he reached out with his left, gently sliding his hand over her hip down to her thigh. Gripping it firmly, he drew her leg up over his, pulling her closer to him.

Gently tightening her hold on Sherlock's chest, Molly felt a smile spread over her face.

She could get used to falling asleep like this.


	19. Chapter 19

_What was that?_

_After multiple updates a week, suddenly whole weeks pass without a word from me..._

_Well, as I had stated in the A/N of the very first chapter - I am not writing this story, it is writing itself. So it won't be controlled and bend to my will. I should have known and yet I tried. And failed. Spectacularly. After multiple attempts of continuing to write this story and only coming up with different variations of what I could only call garbled mutilation of the English language, I had to take a step back. Both the story and I needed a little time to breathe and I believe we are better for it._

_I don't know, if the hang-up was just with this chapter or the story in general. I very much hope, that I can present you with the next chapter shortly, but unfortunately I cannot make that a promise._

_Please, as always, review! Every fanfiction-alert in my mailbox gives me the warm fuzzies!_

**Chapter 19**

Sherlock woke up feeling cold, despite the blanket partially covering him.

Only a minute ago he had been pleasantly asleep and now he found himself momentarily disoriented, a feeling very unusual for him. Opening his eyes, he quickly took in his surroundings, most notably the disappearing of Molly's bare back under the t-shirt she had just pulled over her head. He needed only seconds for his disorientation to ebb and the memories of everything leading up to exactly this point to return to him.

The memories were pleasant, the sentiments surrounding them were less so. They were new and confusing. He wanted to reach out to Molly, call her back, he did not want her to leave him behind feeling cold, alone under the warm covers of her bed. But he watched her sneak out of the bedroom out of the corner of his eye, feigned sleep as she made an effort not to wake him.

As the door clicked closed behind Molly, Sherlock sighed and turned to face the empty room.

The physical contact he had experienced with Molly had been in no way new to him. Contrary to Mycroft's believes, Sherlock was no virgin. He had engaged in sexual intercourse with multiple partners out of scientific curiosity, seeking out different individuals for the purpose of experiencing a wide range of preferences. He had always adjusted to his opposite, deducing exactly what it was that spurred arousal and providing it. Some proclivities had been more comprehensible to him than others, but none had been particularly pleasing. The release of tension during climax was welcomed, but he had always found it non-essential, had he not willed the tension to build in the first place.

Sherlock hadn't had any kind of sexual relations in years, he had not seen the need.

How the interaction with Molly had led to building tension without him willing it, was beyond him. It was a new sensation for an action, which was by no means new to him. This made no sense! It put him in a situation he had never been in before and he couldn't help but face it with a certain degree of fear.

Finally getting out of bed, Sherlock walked out of the bedroom to see Molly in her open kitchen, fixing breakfast. A shadow of a smile crept over his face, as his eyes wandered over her body, the loose fitting night wear and the messy hair. But before the smile managed to take hold, he pushed it aside, replaced it with a scowl. It was unsettling to him, how much he was drawn to her.

Molly had not heard him approach and was obviously startled by Sherlock suddenly standing right behind her, not close enough for his chest and her back to actually touch but too close for her to move past him.

He could sense, that she was about to say something, as he leaned closer, his head dipping down to her neck, but like his chest remaining far enough away to just barely not touch.

Instead of words, a low moan made its way to his ears. This time, he did not hold back his smile and welcomed the pleasant twitch in his stomach. He was strangely pleased to look down and see Molly's knuckles stand out white against the delicate skin of her hands, as she tightly gripped the kitchen counter she was now heavily leaning against.

"Good morning, Molly."

Sherlock's lips brushed against the soft skin of Molly's neck, as she barely noticeably leaned into him.

Sherlock felt the urge to shift his hips forward, to pin Molly against the counter. He wanted to feel her body against his, wanted to let his hands wander to the new and yet familiar soft skin of her breasts and taste her exposed skin with his mouth and tongue. But he found there to be no objective reason, as to why he should give in to these desires. Objectively, there was no benefit to eliciting more moans, no matter how gratifying.

So he stepped back from Molly and instead sat down at the table, turning his attention to his belongings in front of him.

Molly, having somewhat regained her composure, joined him a few moments later. She set down a mug next to Sherlock, using a bit too much force and spreading droplets of tea over the nearby surface, including Sherlock's mobile phone.

He merely raised an eyebrow at her, as he accepted the tea and took a sip. Perched on the edge of her chair, Molly eyed Sherlock over the rim of her own mug, which she nearly dropped, when the phone on the table began ringing unexpectedly.

Sherlock scrutinized his phone's display briefly, before lifting it to his ear.

"Yes."

Molly was still holding her mug up to her face, having lowered it only slightly and seemingly forgotten it there, as she tried hard to make out the voice on the other end of the line. It was only a low, unrecognizable murmur, but it wasn't hard for her to figure out, who had called. While many people might have known that phone number, Molly could only think of one person for whom Sherlock would actually pick up.

Her eyes never left Sherlock's unmoving face as he hung up the phone without another word. Finally Molly remembered the mug and lowered it into her lap. "Mycroft."

While Sherlock absolutely saw the logic behind her conclusion and found it to be insultingly obvious, he had gotten used to people around him to see, but not to observe. He had expected Molly to ask about the call, not to simply state the name of the caller as a fact.

He half raised an eyebrow at her, as he replaced his phone on the table and stood. Molly lowered her gaze, eyeing the mug clutched tightly in her hands. "You are leaving."

Again, it was not a question and Sherlock could not keep his eyebrow from rising even higher. How was it, that he'd had this woman all figured out and suddenly she somehow managed to throw everything he was certain he knew about her out of the window? He opened his mouth, but words wouldn't come. Instead, he frowned and tilted his head as if expecting a new insight from this new angle. With nothing changing, he straightened up and opened his mouth again, but immediately closed it with a snap, turning and walking towards the bedroom wordlessly.

When he emerged only a few minutes later in the clothes he had arrived in, Molly was still sitting at the table staring at her knees.

Sherlock barely hesitated as he walked passed her to the door, his step only slightly faltering. He had pulled the door open only an inch, when he stopped and angled his head. His gaze was not directed over his shoulder at Molly, instead it seemed as if he was looking at the shoulder itself - not that she would have seen it, still intently staring at the mug in her hands.

After what seemed like minutes, he finally pulled the door open all the way. And just before it clicked shut again, Molly heard Sherlock's voice, barely above a whisper.

"See you later, Molly Hooper."


End file.
